“Heck, Liv. They wouldn’t talk about it around me if they did. And what do you care?”
“I don’t.”
BeBe gave her a look. “You’re just mad because he let Ruth Benedict think you were.”
“If he really did. I wonder if he’s heard about the murder?”
Instead of returning home with the sisters, Liv decided to stop by the newspaper office to see Chaz. If he was even there. Maybe he was at the fish camp, fishing, or with one of his many admirers.
She didn’t care.
Not a lot anyway. But she did need his help if she could convince him to listen. For a former investigative reporter he sure tried to keep his head in the sand about breaking news, defaulting to fishing stories and Four-H and Scouting endeavors.
At first Liv had thought it was sheer laziness, but lately she had come to realize that like most people Chaz was carrying around a few bruises from the past. Wounds that he would rather put to rest, but that all came back again every time he had to interest himself in an investigation.
Liv felt for him, but not enough to let him off the hook, to use a fishing term. Behind Chaz’s lazy, flirtatious, sometimes infuriatingly smart-aleck attitude was a finely tempered mind.
But today she wasn’t particularly interested in his mind. Today she had more personal business to conduct.
“I don’t think you should go over there mad,” Edna said.
“What you and Chaz do is your own business,” added Ida.
“We’re just friends,” Liz said. “And sometimes we aren’t even friends.”
“I know he can be annoying, but he’s a nice young man after all is said and done.” Edna nodded to herself.
Liv gave up. “I’m not mad. I’m going to see if he has any ideas about what happened on Friday night.”
“That’s a good idea,” Ida said. “He was always such a bright boy.”
Liv smiled and headed up the block to give that bright boy a piece of her mind.
• • •
The Celebration Bay Clarion office was housed in a cottage, a block from First Presbyterian. It had once been a charming Craftsman, painted white with green shutters. At least when Liv had first seen it she’d thought it charming—until she got close to it. Then she saw the graying façade, the peeling paint on the shutters. The porch was sagging and the windows looked like they hadn’t been washed in a decade.
The windows still looked pretty dirty, but the porch had new floorboards, and the shutters had been scraped and painted.
It still had a long ways to go.
Liv hesitated out on the walk. She was Ms. Organization, the quintessential event planner, in control, cool in an emergency, but Chaz Bristow made her rush into things without thinking. Like now.
She didn’t know—or care, she reminded herself—how he spent his weekends, how he’d spent last night, or what he was doing this morning. Though maybe it would have been better if she’d called first.
Just as she was about to turn away, an upstairs window opened. Chaz’s head stuck out. “If you’re taking the census, you’d better come in.”
Liv frowned up at him. “What?”
“Those shoes.”
“What about them?”
“Very sensible. Like you might be going door to door. I picture you more as the four-inch-heel type.”
“Still?” She’d gone out of her way to fit into the rural atmosphere of the town. “Anyway, that’s what I’ve come to see you about.”
“Shoes? Sounds promising.”
“Lucille Foster’s shoes. And some information about the fish camp.”
“Oops. I never did, not with Lucille anyway.”
“You know she’s dead?”
Chaz just looked at her. “You better come in.”
The door wasn’t locked, it never was. A lot of people in town didn’t lock their doors. It was one of the quaint things that Liv found appealing, not that she would ever leave her own cottage unlocked. Nor did she think Chaz should either.
He’d been an investigative reporter in Los Angeles and had witnessed things Ted said she shouldn’t ask him about. That kind of life didn’t sound like it would increase a man’s trust in his fellow man.
She stepped inside the foyer. Groped for a light switch, thinking if he’d only wash the windows, the house wouldn’t be so dark. Nothing much had changed since the last time she’d been here. The room had once been a parlor but whatever furnishings were left had been pushed to the far end to make room for a large kneehole desk and several wooden chairs that served as a reception area.
Two other rooms housed the newspaper proper. The upstairs was Chaz’s living quarters, which Liv had never seen. If the downstairs was any indication, she had no desire to enter them, either.
Chaz padded barefoot down the stairs, pulling a T-shirt over his head.
He walked right past her and into the newspaper room. Liv followed him through another dark room, inhabited by several desks piled high with books and papers and several computers and screens of varying sizes. A sagging couch, also covered in papers, sat in the middle of the room.
Chaz didn’t stop to turn on a light, but walked straight through to another room, which held more equipment, and into the kitchen.
Liv prepared herself and stepped in behind him. The last time she’d been here it had looked like a garbage dump. Chaz had just gotten back from a trip to LA that he hadn’t told anyone about, one that had really affected him, and not for the better.
It had taken work on everyone’s part to get him back to his infuriating snarky self. Today the kitchen was spotless. It was also bare of any food or signs of eating.
Hmmm. “Am I interrupting anything?”
Chaz raised one eyebrow, and a slow smile spread across his face. “What do you have in mind?”
“Stop it. I came to get some information. Did you know that Lucille Foster was murdered sometime Friday night?”
The smile disappeared. “I need coffee.”
“They took Ernie Bolton in for questioning. Do you know if they let him out?”
Chaz ran his fingers through his hair, leaving it sticking up in spikes. “Just wait until I have some coffee. You’re not making sense. And I don’t know anything. When I left you and Ted Friday night, I went up to the fish camp. I just got back last night.”
Liv pursed her lips. That was something else she was going to find out about while she was here. Even though she really didn’t want to know.
Chaz got coffee from the freezer, measured it out, poured water in the coffeemaker, and stood at the counter watching it drip into the carafe.
Liv sat at the table and waited. At last he reached into the cabinet and took out two mugs, filled them, handed one to Liv, and sat down across from her.
He stared into his mug between sips of coffee, but when he finally looked up, Liv saw a glint of what he called his journalistic addiction. “What happened?”
She told him about jogging and discovering Barry’s museum had been vandalized.
Chaz didn’t look at her but stared into the middle distance as if he were absorbing information and filing it as it came in. He must be tired, because he typically surrounded himself in BS and goofiness. And she’d have to drag him into helping.
He hadn’t even told her to leave it alone, at least not yet, and that was usually the first thing he said.
She told him about finding the mannequins in the weeds, calling Barry, and finding Lucille’s body; about being at the bakery when they heard that Ernie had been taken in for questioning.
She repeated her conversation with Bill and then told him about discovering that Lucille’s shoes were missing.
When she finally finished, she was out of breath.
Chaz looked up and said, “Lucille?”
And that’s when Liv got worried.
Chapter Eight
Liv fought the buzzing in her ears. Ruth Benedict saying, “Chaz’s jeep was at the fish camp Friday night.” “You weren’t—you didn’t—?” She couldn’t even form the words, the thought was so repellent. She changed tack. “There’s speculation that Lucille caught someone breaking into Barry’s museum and tried to stop them.”
“Lucille?” This time he sounded more like himself. He rubbed his face with both hands. “Go back to the beginning and tell me everything again and give me more detail.”
She did, step by step.
“Damn, it doesn’t make sense.”
“No, it doesn’t. Lucille didn’t strike me as someone who would do something so obviously futile, not to mention dangerous, just to stop a burglary.” Especially not while wearing those shoes, she added to herself. They looked more like the kind of shoes you wore on a . . . date.
“She wasn’t,” Chaz said. “She would hire someone to do it.”
Liv frowned. “But maybe if she saw that it was Ernie, and she thought she could talk some sense into him . . .”
“Liv, first of all, Ernie didn’t leave the pub until after eight o’clock. The ceremony had been over for at least half an hour. And she’d already gone off with her husband.”
“Did you see him?”
“No.”
“Neither did anyone else.”
“Was anyone paying attention?”
“No, I guess not, but Carson said he didn’t pick her up, and regardless, the vandalism had to occur much later. Chaz, the whole thing was dismantled like someone was tearing the figures limb from limb.”
“Hmm.”
“It’s only two blocks from the square. The movie house is half a block from there. People would be around until pretty late. Whoever broke in would have had to wait until the middle of the night.”
“True,” Chaz said. “And you’re wondering what Lucille was doing driving around that late at night?”
“Yes. But there’s one other thing. When I left Bill at the museum yesterday afternoon, they hadn’t found her shoes or her car.”
Chaz took a sip of coffee, beetled his eyebrows.
Liv could practically see his mind wake up, and she knew he was already putting events into possible scenarios. He was good. He just wasn’t willing.
“Stop it,” he said finally.
“That’s my line,” Liv said. “Stop what?”
“Sitting there like a puppy waiting for a biscuit.”
“That was demeaning. I’m a woman waiting for you to decide to participate.”
He looked at her, a slow smile curving his lips and working its way up to his eyes. “I’m well aware of the first, and it’s not me who’s indecisive.”
“Chaz.”
“Yeah, I’ll take a look at the facts. Lucille wasn’t a bad person. She just got bored easily and didn’t always use the best judgment.”
“So you know about her . . .”
“Yep. Everybody did.”
“Do you think one of her, um, lovers might have killed her and not the vandal?”
“How the hell would I know?”
Liv gulped. “Not you?”
“For crying out loud, Liv. Are seriously asking me that?”
“Well, Ruth Benedict said she was always seeing Lucille’s car up at the fish camp and that she saw your jeep there Friday night.” Liv took a breath.
Chaz cocked his head. “That’s because I went fishing. I told you that.”
“Oh, right. Did you, uh, happen to see Lucille while you were up there?”
“No. And I haven’t ‘seen’ her in the way you mean since I was fourteen and she introduced me to the mysteries of adulthood.”
“She didn’t.”
“Here’s to you, Mrs. Foster.”
“TMI.”
He chuckled. “Don’t ask if you don’t want to know the truth. I didn’t see anyone at the camp. I was on my boat, on the lake. Besides, the camp is closed for a private party.”
Liv rolled her eyes. “I can imagine.”
“No, really, get this. Amanda Marlton-Crosby rented out the whole place—all eight cabins—to a bunch of witches for their Halloween ritual.”
“Witches? Why would they come to the fish camp?”
“Beats me, but I saw Rod Crosby last week cleaning the cottages out and spiffing up the place. He said that Amanda had rented the whole thing out for three weekends. Guess they thought that field between the camp and the house would be the perfect place to dance naked widdershins or whatever they do.”
“Stop it. Why do you keep doing that?”
“Being provocative?”
“Being obnoxious.”
“I like to see you get all huffy.”
“Well, stop it, and for your info, they don’t dance widdershins, at least I don’t think they do, I think widdershins creates negative energy.” Liv frowned. “How did we go from Lucille being murdered to talking about witches?”
“Your rambling, eclectic, delicious mind.”
“So before we leave the subject, why on earth did Amanda rent to them?”
“Amanda knows their leader, or whatever you call the head witch. She opened a store in town, but I haven’t seen it yet.”
“Oh, I met her yesterday, Yolanda Nestor. She rented the space that used to be the Pyne Bough. And she put a spell on the soapbox prophet.”
“He’s back?”
“I guess Bill has been too busy to pick him up. But I’m going to make sure we get rid of him by next weekend.”
“Maybe this Yolanda can turn him into a frog.”
“I don’t think she’s that kind of witch. She seemed really nice except for the knocking the soapboxer over thing. She says he tripped, but . . . When are they coming?”
“A few of them are coming sometime this week, according to Rod Crosby. . . to do the preparations and commune with the spirits or whatever. Then the whole lot is coming in for Halloween night.
“Rod was not pleased at all, he thought he and Amanda were going to spend the fall in Manhattan and the winter in Miami. Now she’s talking about a white Christmas and chestnuts roasting on an open fire. Poor guy.”
“They don’t seem to like it here much. They hardly ever come into town,” Liv said. “And then she donates ten K to the haunted house winner. I didn’t know she was even aware the community center needed a new space.”
“She’s just really shy. Rod’s the people person. Maybe he told her about it.”
Liv pulled out her phone and made a note to check out Yolanda and her coven, and make sure they were friendly and wouldn’t cause too much of a disturbance in town. That’s all Liv needed—anti-Halloween sentiment, which she’d heard had become a real concern in a few other towns. She was determined to keep her event fun and anger free.
Chaz got up and poured them more coffee.
“Well, first things first,” Liv said when he was seated across from her again. “What are we going to do about Lucille’s murder?”
• • •
When Liv left a few minutes later, they hadn’t come up with any more of a plan than she had with Ted or the sisters. Normally that would irritate her, that Chaz had the acumen but not the desire to help. Now, she was beginning to see a pattern. Obstinacy at the beginning, then being slowly drawn into taking a look at the facts, then following the story, wherever it led.
And after having been around him for a year and pleading with him to help, she was beginning to realize when he was hooked, just like all those poor fish he hauled out of the lake. He could wriggle all he wanted to, but he would investigate.
She smiled to herself as she walked toward the street. It made her feel a little powerful—and kind of mercenary. She deflated a bit. Surely she shouldn’t be enjoying the feeling of having just a little power
over the recalcitrant newspaper editor.
“Hey,” Chaz called.
She wiped off the smile and turned back to him. He was leaning out the door, his hands braced against the frame. Celebration Bay’s celebrated bad boy. An image he cultivated and probably deserved.
“When is your philanthropist coming?”
“Jon Preston? Not until this next weekend, thank goodness.”
“I can see where murder might put a damper on your fund-raiser.”
“I know. I just hope this can all be resolved before he gets here.”
• • •
Storm clouds swept in and Liv spent Sunday afternoon curled up on the couch with Whiskey and her laptop, trying to concentrate on the other events for Halloween—the new zombie parade, among others. So far sign-up had been going great. It was scheduled for Thursday afternoon, starting at the post office parking lot, circling the square, and ending at the band shell. Short and sweet.
Liv had insisted that it be held on a weekday afternoon and open to all ages. The last thing she wanted was a bunch of zombies staggering out of the pub and acting crazy. Maybe not the last thing; the last thing she needed was an unsolved murder and a killer running loose when hundreds of kids were about to go door-to-door trick-or-treating.
Her fingers itched to call Bill to see if there had been any breaks in the case, but she knew he was doing the best he could with the staff he had. He had to take care of the entire county, not just their town, and Halloween always brought an uptick in misdemeanors. She’d get in touch with A.K. Pierce first thing in the morning and have Bayside Security beef up their presence on the street.
Maybe A.K. could figure out a way to keep that soapboxer out of town square. He was bound to cause trouble.
Halloween might be dedicated to costume parties and handing out candy, but Halloween Eve was often an excuse for people to misbehave. Whether you called it Cabbage Night, Mischief Night, Devil’s Night, or any of the other sobriquets, it was a night of egging and toilet-papering people’s shrubbery, and it sometimes led to vandalism and theft.
Liv sighed. Someone in Celebration Bay hadn’t waited, and he’d thrown in murder as an added insult.
By the time evening rolled around and it was time for Liv to meet BeBe for their weekly dinner, she’d worked herself into a first-class funk. The weather wasn’t helping. Rain was coming down in sheets, and Liv thought of all the bales of hay getting saturated and the decorations hanging limp and torn.
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